Where Dreams are Born and Time is Never Planned
by LacedX
Summary: Many years have passed since her adventure in Neverland and, with the looming prospect of marriage and motherhood, 18 year-old Wendy grieves for her youthful escapades. However, a very unexpected visit from an old (or, rather, young) friend in need of her help could steer her life in a more favourable direction - along with the reappearance of many other ghosts from her past.
1. Chapter One

**A/N: Please forgive the non-canonical additions/omissions! In this story, the Lost Boys chose to remain in Neverland as Peter's companions and were not adopted by the Darlings. Inspiration has been drawn from the various adaptations of the original novel/play. Rating for future chapters.**

 **Thank you for reading!**

* * *

Wendy Darling awoke to a pair of piercing blue eyes, staring down at her.

The eighteen year old gasped loudly as her bleary gaze focused on that of the stranger. Wendy sat bolt upright and rubbed her eyes vigorously with her knuckles. But when she opened her eyes, there was nobody to be seen.

'I can't have been dreaming,' she mumbled to herself as she untangled her body from the lily-patterned duvet. Wendy searched all over her room, opening each drawer, peering under the bed, checking every nook and cranny, all the while wondering _who_ she had seen.

Nobody from Wendy's family had blue eyes; on the contrary, the Darling family were gifted with an earnest, brown-eyed gaze. After several minutes of exploration, a thoroughly mystified Wendy sank onto her mattress, biting her lip in deep thought.

She had been unable to locate the source of those blue eyes nor could she think of any reason for someone to be in her bedroom. However, it would not be the first time that a stranger had entered her room while she slept.

Wendy would never forget her adventures in Neverland nor the strange boy who had took her there. Nevertheless, in the years that had passed since her adventure, Wendy found that her memories of that time were becoming increasingly blurred and distant. It was like trying to remember the events of a dream. The details were hazy and indistinct, slowly fading into the black hole of forgotten memories, from which they could never be retrieved.

Her body went rigid as her mind processed the thought: Perhaps Peter Pan had returned?

She squeezed her eyes shut as she remembered the time she danced in the forest with the immortal boy. She felt the slippery, wet grass beneath the soles of her feet, the warmth of his hand clasped over her own and the eyes that glimmered with youthful mischief. They were, indeed, blue. But a darker blue. Warm and inviting. No, they were not the eyes she had seen. There had been no warmth in the eyes that she had looked into that morning. Their precise colour reminded her irrevocably of a sea covered in a layer of sparkling ice.

Wendy cupped her cheeks with her palms and tried her hardest to remember all the curious creatures she had met once upon a time in Neverland.

 _Tinker Bell._

An image, blurred by the passage of time and the forgetfulness of memory, appeared in her mind's eye. The mischievous, blonde fairy had blue eyes, which had often glared at Wendy with a frosty dislike. But, the eyes she had seen were not those of a fairy. In truth, Tinker Bell's entire head was approximately the same size as Wendy's big toe. There was no doubt that the eyes she had seen belonged to a human face.

'Good morning, Wendy.'

'Good morning, Mother!' replied Wendy as she sat down next to her brother Michael at the dining room table. Mrs Darling gave her eldest a warm smile before returning to her task of buttering toast for the family.

'Sleep well, dear?'

'Yes...I did,' she replied as she reached for the proffered plate of toast that her mother held. 'But I...I awoke to the strangest thing this morning...'

Her father, George Darling, lowered his paper slightly and peered at her anxiously over the morning headlines. Mrs Darling hand wavered, causing a slice of toast to slip off of the plate onto the floor, which Nana gratefully devoured - crumbs and all.

Whoever said that Newfoundlands were inefficient housekeepers had, clearly, never had the pleasure of surveying the Darlings' employee at work. Subsequent to Liza's departure, Nana had proven herself to be competent at many other domestic chores as well as nursing the children.

'Oh,' said Mrs Darling lightly as she placed the plate in the centre of the table. Her hand moved to her neck as she adjusted her perfectly neat collar, tugging gently on the material.

Mr Darling's eyes darted to his left and saw his anxiety mirrored in his wife's face and movements.

The night of their children's mysterious disappearance had been forever branded into their memories. Although Mr and Mrs Darling did not believe in the existence of Neverland, convinced that their children had simply ran away from home, they knew that something had haunted the three of them to make them flee. The couple lived in fear that something or _someone_ would possess their children to repeat their domestic truancy.

'Well, I opened my eyes and…right in front of me…I saw a pair of huge blue eyes! Right in front of my face!'

Mr Darling choked and consequently sprayed a mouthful of tea over the front page of the _London Times_.

'Perhaps you were just dreaming, dear,' said Mrs Darling kindly as she hastily schooled her alarm into a motherly smile.

'But I wasn't dreaming!'

'How can you be sure of that?' replied Mr Darling tersely as he dabbed his newspaper with his handkerchief.

'Because – because I –'

'Wendy, how many times must I tell you that sentences do not start with "because" –'

'Really, Father, I just meant –'

'No, Wendy. We are not going through all this...this _nonsense_ again.'

'Father...'

'No! No more silly games or stories about runaway children from Kensington Gardens flying through the nursery window in the dead of the night! You are eighteen years old,' he shouted as his newspaper crumpled like an accordion between his clenched fists.

'I know, but –'

'Your mother and I have indulged these childish fantasies for far too long. Especially since…since… _that_ night. We're putting it behind us as of today. And as for you, young lady, it is high time that we think about finding you a suitor.'

There was a dramatic intake of breath from John and Michael, who had, thus far, remained silent during the exchange between Wendy and their parents. They looked to their mother imploringly who gazed at her husband with gentle appeal.

'George, dear, let us talk no more of this subject. Not at breakfast,' she added gently, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

'By Jove, Mary!' he exclaimed, banging his fist against the table surface and, accidentally, upending the butter dish onto the floor. 'The girl _is_ _eighteen_! Margaret Wiggins at number four is of the same age and ready to give birth to her _third_ child at any moment. Meanwhile, our Wendy isn't even married yet!'

His pale complexion was now shining red with exasperation and his eyes had grown wider and wilder with every word of his tirade. The room lapsed into silence. The only noise that could be heard was the gentle lapping sound of Nana licking the fallen butter dish that lay on the floor.

Exhaling heavily, Mr Darling looked around the table at the faces staring cautiously at him as if he were about to launch into another furious monologue. The only face not turned in his direction was that of his daughter, whose eyes were lowered towards her lap. Her tears painted thin glistening paths down her cheeks and Mr Darling felt a rush of guilt.

'I...I know it sounds harsh, Wendy,' he said gently, laying the scrunched newspaper on the table beside his plate. 'But, you know, growing up is something of an inevitability, I'm afraid.' He reached under the table and patted her knee consolingly.

Wendy nodded as she surreptitiously wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.

'Shouldn't you be on your way to work now, dear?' asked Mrs Darling with an anxious glance towards the clock that hung from the wall.

Mr Darling yelped and hastily rose to his feet.

'You're quite right, Mary, dear. I must go,' he said as he straightened his tie and reached for his brief case. 'I will see you tonight. Goodbye, dear. Goodbye, children...Argh, confound it, Nana!' he cried as he stumbled over the dog.

Wendy sighed resignedly and looked down at her breakfast plate. Her father's words lay heavy in her heart. It was starting all over again. Like it had before Neverland.

Years ago, before Neverland, Wendy's parents were determined for their daughter to be married within the forthcoming months, much to Wendy's alarm. However, the Darlings had dropped all intention of marrying off their eldest child after their departure. For nights, they had sat by the window of their children's nursery, crying softly as they wondered if they would ever see them again. Their delight at their return had rendered the subject of marriage and growing up completely forgotten. For several blissful years, the Darlings remained a wholesome, happy family and the children were allowed to continue their studies in peace without any imminent need to grow up.

'You see, Wendy, when you left, I realised that...if you were to be married…then, you would be leaving me again, after a fashion, and I...I never want to feel that way again.' Those were the words of Mr Darling, which he had said one night, when John, Michael and Wendy had crept into their parents' bed. Wendy remembered that night fondly: They had spent the whole night talking and embracing, not worrying about the future or the past or, even, the present as they all had each other.

However, as the years passed, gradually the Darlings slipped back into their old routine. The trio had resumed their schooling and Mr Darling worked long hours at the bank, returning long after Nana had put the children to bed.

Wendy's education had ended several years ago, which meant that she now spent her days shadowing Mrs Darling and moulding herself into the perfect housewife, much to Wendy's dismay. It was not that she did not enjoy spending time with her mother – on the contrary, Wendy treasured the special time that she and her mother shared together, without Mr Darling blustering about his job or her brothers charging around the house – but the realisation that she was preparing for a new era of her life hit her a little bit harder every day.

Nevertheless, Wendy was very pleased to have finished with her studies. Her worst class had been Geography and her teacher had despised her. Wendy had started the class with high hopes, hoping to learn all about the Indians and their culture for she, herself, had met an entire tribe during her adventures. Eager to breathe life back into the memory of her encounter with the curious inhabitants of Neverland, Wendy looked forward to her first Geography lesson with great anticipation.

To her extreme disappointment, however, the only lesson she had learned from that first class was to hold her tongue, following her altercation with the irritable Geography teacher:

'Along the eastern coast of India, one of the most formidable, and carnivorous, reptiles that you would find is the saltwater crocodile. Can anyone tell me anything about this particular predator?'

Wendy's hand had been the first in the air as she recalled the stump of an arm, from which protruded a sharp, iron hook – an old relic of a crocodile attack.

'Yes, Wendy?'

'Saltwater crocodiles live in the deepest parts of the sea, they –'

'That is incorrect. As I _just_ said, the saltwater crocodile resides in swamps or shallow stretches of water.'

'Oh no, sir! The crocodile that _I_ am referring to lived –'

'My dear girl! When, pray tell, would a young girl, such as yourself, come across a crocodile in the middle of London? Perhaps you fancied you saw one emerging from the Thames…' His lips had curled upwards into a cruel grin as the class erupted in laughter. Wendy could still remember the scarlet embarrassment that had burned her face.

'No, sir, if I may explain –'

'As I was saying,' said Mr Beckett, cutting over Wendy's protests. 'The saltwater crocodile generally inhabits shallow rivers. These beasts can be found in the hotter parts of the world…'

Wendy had crossed her ankles and pondered this thought. Was Neverland warm? She could not remember. They had left in their pyjamas and she could not remember ever feeling chilly, but, she could not remember feeling anything apart from pure amazement at the wonders that had happened all around her.

'Can anyone tell me what makes these beasts so valuable to poachers? Why would anyone seek to hunt these terrifying creatures?'

'Perhaps…' Images had appeared in Wendy's mind's eye of the mad glint in Captain Hook's eye as Smee cast the anchor of the Jolly Roger onto the crocodile's snout. 'Perhaps, if the crocodile took something from someone and the owner sought revenge?'

Raucous, cruel cackling pierced the silence that had followed Wendy's answer.

'Now, _really_ , Wendy! I have had enough of these preposterous outbursts! I'll hear no more answers from you, do you understand? Elspeth, could you give me a _feasible_ answer?'

'Saltwater crocodiles are hunted for their meat and for their eggs.'

'Correct,' he had replied with a fervent nod of his head. 'Now, moving on…'

Wendy shuddered as she recalled her days within the stuffy, old classroom. Nevertheless, it was during those times that her memories of Neverland were the most vivid. Her mind would spend hours soaring from cloud to cloud in Neverland, while her body remained rooted to the hard, wooden stool in Mr Beckett's classroom.

'Wendy, dear! Are you even listening to me?' asked her mother as she clicked her fingers together.

'Yes, Mother,' Wendy replied, straightening the startled expression on her face. 'You were telling me about the...the...'

Her mother sighed gently and turned to face her daughter. Her eyes were wide and beseeching as she gently cupped her daughter's face in her hands.

'I hate to keep on at you, Wendy, but you really need to come down from the clouds. I know that this is not, perhaps, the most exciting experience...learning how to remove stains from shirts,' she said, gesturing towards Mr Darling's shirt, which lay in a basin of water. 'But, one day, you will be a wife and a mother.'

Wendy shook her head free of her mother's gentle grip and looked at the floor. The urge to cry had swooped down upon her unexpectedly and Wendy struggled to hold in her tears.

'Oh, Wendy,' her mother said softly. 'I know that, at the present, that thought does not make you happy. But, I can assure you, there is no greater adventure than motherhood.'

Raising her head, Wendy's eyes flickered to her mother's kind and earnest expression and wrapped her arms around her waist. She knew that her parents were very much in love and that they lived a happy, albeit chaotic, life with three children and a canine nanny. But Wendy could not visualise herself partaking in the same simple lifestyle as that of her parents.

Leaving her family home would be difficult and Wendy could not bear to imagine what her life would be like without waking up to the noises – that is to say, the riotous chaos – that her brothers created. But that was not the reason for the dread that gnawed away at her. The life that lay before her, a life of marriage and children, with a mysterious stranger who she had not yet encountered filled her with abject misery. When that moment finally arrived, the dream of an adventurous, exciting life would end and she would sigh and continue sewing up the holes in her children's garments. Being 'Mother' to the Lost Boys had been different, it was part of a game in a world of wonders and excitement. Raising children and attending to the needs of her husband in a townhouse in Bloomsbury did not seem like a particularly grand adventure.

It was impossible for Wendy, the girl who had fought pirates, encountered mermaids and kissed an immortal youth, to bury those memories and welcome a life of sewing, cooking and waiting on the wiles of her children and spouse.

In recent years, however, her thoughts had turned from reminisces of Neverland to concerns about her future. The mysterious, shadowed figure of 'husband' loomed in her wake, but, sometimes, very late at night, the figure took the shape of someone she knew very well. Peter. Wendy freed her imagination and let her thoughts of Peter take over. She fantasised about returning to Neverland with him by her side, embarking on never-ending adventures. Excitement and passion would never fade.

But, in the light of day, her fantasies seemed ludicrous and pathetic. She was far too old to return to Neverland and Peter would not have aged a day. He would be furious to see her now and he would never understand that, in her heart, she was still the little girl who had taken his hand and leapt from the windowsill of the nursery.

Sometimes, she imagined what it would have been like if Peter had decided to come back to London with her. The future seemed far more exciting when the mysterious form of 'husband' assumed that of Peter. But he was far too free-spirited and in love with his youth to ever think about settling down to a life of work, marriage and children. Despite the creations of her imagination, Wendy knew, deep down, that it would have been a very unhappy marriage, indeed.

'Come,' said her mother, finally, as they broke apart. 'Let's go into town.'

'Town? But what about Father's shirt?'

'Oh, it can wait until we get back,' said her mother with a mischievous smile as she reached for her hat that perched on a coat peg. 'I think we could both do with a bit of fresh air.'

* * *

A balding man with a crown of tufty white hair stood in front of the counter of the bookshop, grinning widely as he addressed the lady behind the till. His smile was pleasant and warm, but Wendy could not help but notice several missing teeth and the nuggets of gold that glistened in their place. His shirt strained over his voluptuous stomach and, despite his suspenders, he had to frequently hoist the waistband of his trousers upwards.

'Unfortunately, sir, the book you have requested has not been in print for several years,' said Mrs Heavey with a shake of her head.

The Heaveys had owned the local bookshop for many years and were friendly with the Darling family. Mrs Heavey failed to notice their arrival and, at that moment, her attention was directed towards the peculiar gentleman in front of her.

The old man tutted loudly as he rolled on the balls of his feet.

'Dear, dear, what a pity. I was so hoping to read it again as well. I remember reading it when I was a young lad...' he replied. His voice was polite and measured, but there was a gruffness to it that did not elude Wendy's hearing. 'Ah well, thank you for your help.'

'Have a nice day, sir.'

The shop assistant's eyes followed the curious man out of the shop. She was not the only one.

'Wendy? Are you alright? You've gone awfully pale.' Mrs Darling's forehead creased in alarm as she raised her hand to her daughter's cheek. 'You're as cold as ice.'

'I...I – I need to speak to that man.'

'What man? Oh, Wendy, really! You don't even know him...do you?'

'I don't know...' Wendy's voice sounded vague and dreamy as she walked determinedly towards the door that the man had just exited through.

She half-expected him to have disappeared down the street, but, to her surprise, he stood outside the shop. With one hand, he tried to light his pipe and the other he used to shield the flame from the strong breeze.

Goosebumps pricked her skin as her eyes fixed on the familiar figure and she experienced the chilling sensation of déjà-vu.

'Wendy! Don't walk off like that. What are you doing?' Her mother grasped her by the elbow and tried to turn her daughter back towards the bookshop. The old man had not noticed her until now, but, as her mother called her name, his eyes lifted from his pipe and focused on Wendy.

Her heart began to thud loudly as the man's lips curled into a crooked smile. It held none of the warmth of that with which he had greeted Mrs Heavey, but the gold fillings glinted in the light of the afternoon sun. It was a impish smile and the memories that returned to the forefront of Wendy's mind, no doubt matched his own.

'For goodness' sake, Wendy. Let's go back inside!' insisted Mrs Darling, pulling her daughter away from the stranger. Wendy's woke from her dreamlike state and turned to face her mother, who looked bewildered to the point of terrified.

'I – I'm sorry, Mother. I thought I saw...' Wendy's head snapped round to the spot where the man was. But, to her dismay, he had gone.

'No one,' she muttered dismally. 'Let's go back inside.'

They were barely an hour out of doors before they decided to return home. During their walk home, Mrs Darling failed to coax more than a few words out of her daughter on the subject of the mysterious stranger though she pursued the topic with fervent curiosity. Wendy, though silent, could not hush the chaotic rush of thoughts, storming through her mind.

Wendy's shock was overwhelming to the point that she was incapable of uttering that, unless she was very much mistaken, she had just encountered the bo'sun of the Jolly Roger – Mr Smee.

He was genial, odd and, for the most part, harmless, but a darker streak lurked within the man who bound himself to the cruellest person that Wendy had ever encountered. Wendy had not forgotten that it was Mr. Smee who had pushed her onto the rough, wooden plank, albeit, he had acted upon orders from the captain. He had also been prepared to let her go if she had consented to being the ship's story-teller.

Mr Darling's shirt continued to float in the sink, but neither of the women gave heed to the basin of washing as they marched into the living room and settled into the sofa by the fire.

Wendy smiled grimly over her sewing as she recalled how vehemently she had refused to entertain such a notion and how fiercely she resisted against the pirates' attempts to recruit her. Now, given her current state of affairs, Wendy would gladly welcome the opportunity of employment upon the Jolly Roger – despite the overwhelming presence of pirates. At the time, her experience upon the Jolly Roger had been terrifying, but, back in security of her London residence, the memories had omitted the fear element; it all seemed such exciting fun.

She could feel the intent gaze of her mother as she sewed and Wendy concentrated fiercely on the sliver of metal between her fingers. Her mother had relented and ceased her endless questioning, but her watchful gaze did not stray too far from her daughter over the course of the afternoon.

It was only upon the return of John and Michael that Wendy heaved a sigh of relief and rubbed her eyes, which ached with the effort of avoiding her mother.

'What did you learn at school today, boys?' asked her mother as she poured milk into four glasses and a dish for Nana.

'History! Battles! Sword-fighting!' cried Michael as he ran from the kitchen to the living room. He retrieved one of Mrs Darling's knitting needles from her basket beside her chair and brandished it like a sword.

'Conquering kings! Jousts!' added John as he pinched the other needle and the two engaged in a combat of knitting needles.

'Careful, boys,' called their mother from the kitchen. She entered the living room, carrying the four glasses of milk balanced on a tray. Nana padded behind her, picking up the boys' discarded blazers and ties with her teeth as she went.

'The bloody history of England! King Henry VIII!'

'Now, John, lay down your arms and drink your milk,' said Mrs Darling with an indulgent smile, removing the knitting needle from his grasp.

Wendy smiled as she watched her brothers chat animatedly. Like herself, their trip to Neverland had not quelled their thirst for adventure and excitement and she was pleased to see that they both showed no intention of growing up too quickly or abandoning their love of play and make-believe.

Her father returned home shortly afterwards and it was with regret that Wendy went to bed without getting the chance to tell John and Michael about the mysterious happenings that occurred that afternoon. Whenever they were alone together, out of earshot of their parents, the trio loved nothing more than to recall their adventures and re-experience their time in Neverland all over again.

As she pulled her bed-covers over her chest, Wendy marvelled at the curious events of the day and sent a silent prayer that it was not just the workings of her imagination. She wanted nothing more than to have one more adventure before her life was taken out of her hands and into the mysterious palms of her 'husband'.

The midnight sky slowly faded into complete darkness as Wendy closed her eyes.

But, her eyes had closed for a mere two seconds before she felt an inexplicable urge to open them again. And there he was, gripping the window-frame for support.

Wendy threw back the covers in delight and hurried towards the boy she had not seen for a very, very long time.


	2. Chapter Two

' _Peter_!' Wendy raced from her bed to the windowsill and hastily opened the catch with trembling fingers.

Like a gust of wind, he swooped through the space between the window and the frame and landed gently on the carpet. Wendy eagerly encased the familiar figure in a crushing embrace.

'Oh, Peter! It's so good to see you! I can't – I can't believe...After all this time! You look –'

She pulled away from him and gazed up at him in sheer delight. Peter, however, did not appear to share her joy and looked distinctly alarmed by her proximity. He coughed awkwardly and looked around the room, avoiding her gaze.

Wendy blushed and stepped away from him, stumbling on the rumpled corner of the rug. He was still a boy and, like all young boys, he was very uncomfortable with displays of affection – especially from the female sex.

'You've...changed,' he stated bluntly once she had put several feet between them.

Wendy did not miss the accusatory tone in his voice.

'I grew up,' she replied simply, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, feeling more ashamed than before when she had embraced him. 'I didn't have a choice.'

To her eighteen year old eyes, Peter seemed much younger than she remembered. He looked even younger than John and Michael.

The silence that followed was awkward and uncomfortable. Wendy straightened the rug with her foot as Peter examined the floor beneath his dirty toes.

'I can't believe you're here,' she murmured as she raised her eyes to his face. 'I hoped – I dreamed, but you never –' Wendy trailed off biting her lip foolishly.

'I – I'm sorry that I never came back for you,' he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, as he kept his eyes fixed to the carpet. 'I did come and visit. Quite often, actually...'

Wendy waited for him to continue.

'I came for the stories,' he continued with a smile and a tentative glance in her direction. ' _And_ to see you. You seemed so... _happy_ , I didn't want to...'

His sentence vanished into nothing and Wendy felt the tension in the room rise. It made her feel old and awkward even though this reunion was one she had fantasised about for years.

'Why are you here, Peter?' Wendy asked after a long pause. 'Why, tonight? Why, after all this time?'

The question roused Peter and he glided across the room and sat cross-legged on her bed. She knelt on the floor, staring up at him in silent disbelief.

Although she could not suppress the shame of growing up that he made her feel, Wendy could not have asked for a better souvenir from her childhood adventure.

'I – I didn't know who else to go to...' he mumbled as he picked at the embroidery work on her duvet. 'You might look older, Wendy, but I do hope that you haven't _really_ grown up. You still believe in Neverland, in magic, in fairies, don't you?' he asked, staring at her beseechingly.

Wendy thought of her fading memories of Neverland and felt a lump form in her throat, before nodding her head determinedly.

Peter did not raise his eyes and continued tracing the patterns of her bed-cover.

'Neverland has changed.'

Glancing upwards to where he sat, Wendy noted the resolute concentration on his face, but she did not fail to notice the way he bit his lip or the way he swallowed every couple of seconds. It was hard to reconcile this new perception of him with the one she nurtured in her memories.

She had always thought of him as a stoic and knowledgeable leader, who had taught them to fly and guided them along their journey. But, now, several years later, as she watched him struggle to shield the emotion on his face, fiddling incessantly with the needlework on her duvet, Wendy realised that he was still a little boy in need of guidance and comfort.

'Changed? What do you mean?'

'Well...disappeared,' he said, swallowing.

Wendy caught the emotion in his voice.

'Disappeared? But, how? How is that even possible?'

'I don't know,' he muttered with a sad shake of his head. 'I was flying around the island and I couldn't spot Never Land Plains, you know, where the Indians live...So I flew lower to the ground and it just...wasn't there.'

'What do you mean "wasn't there"?' asked Wendy.

'I mean, it wasn't _there_ ,' he repeated emphatically. 'There was just water.'

'Perhaps, there was a tsunami?' she suggested with a slight shrug.

'Who's Sue?' he asked as his features creased in bewilderment.

Wendy suppressed a chuckle.

'Don't laugh at me!' he cried indignantly.

Wendy sobered immediately as she glanced at the scowl on his face.

'I meant...Perhaps there was a tidal wave? The land would be covered with water. However, if that were the case, I don't know how the rest of Neverland would remain untouched...' She trailed off into silence. 'What about the Indians? Where have they gone?'

'They've vanished, too!'

'It is certainly is curious,' she murmured to herself. 'Is the Indian camp the only place that has gone?'

Peter shrugged.

'I can't be sure. I asked the Lost Boys...Not that they were any help,' he grumbled. 'I thought that – _maybe –_ you could help,' Peter admitted. 'I didn't know who else to go to.'

As Wendy pondered his words and the mysterious disappearance of Neverland, she was forcibly reminded of her encounter earlier that day with the bo'sun of the Jolly Roger.

'Wait, there is something...' she began. 'I don't know if it could have anything to do with the disappearance of the Indian camp, but –'

She lost no time in telling Peter the details of her chance meeting with Mr Smee that afternoon. Peter waited with bated breath and, when Wendy finished speaking, he continued to wait expectantly.

'So?' he asked once she had finished her anecdote.

Wendy was less than enthused by his lacklustre reaction.

' _So_...why would he be in London? He's the bo'sun of the Jolly Roger! He belongs in Neverland!' she explained.

'Hmmm...' Peter scratched his bare chin as he mulled over her words. 'Now that you mention it, I've not seen any of Hook's old crew in a while... _Or_ the Jolly Roger, for that matter.'

'So... _all_ of the pirates from Neverland could be milling around London?' asked Wendy incredulously. The thought filled Wendy with both terror and excitement.

Peter shrugged his shoulders and plucked a fallen leaf from his hair.

'But, Wendy, I need your help. Neverland is my home! If it disappears completely, where will I go? What about the Lost Boys?'

'Shh, Peter,' soothed Wendy. 'Everything will be all right. We will figure it out –'

'But, if Smee has turned up here,' he pondered aloud, rubbing his head, seemingly oblivious to her attempts to comfort him. 'Maybe others will turn up as well? Tiger Lily! Maybe even the mermaids! You could ask them, Wendy. You must help me find out what's going on!'

Having grown up parentless among the Lost Boys on the island of Neverland, Peter had missed a few crucial lessons on manners and politeness and Wendy felt her spine stiffen.

She wondered briefly if her sudden change in mood stemmed from Peter's concern for the chieftain's young daughter – especially given the spiritless greeting that she had received from him. But she quickly dismissed the ludicrous thought as soon as it had come.

'But, Peter, you must remember, I have a family and I – I cannot be seen approaching all sorts of strangers and peculiar folks in the street! My mother would go demented. It's just not the done thing. What would my father think?'

Peter regarded her sullenly.

'I was right – you have changed.'

'So have you...I don't remember you being this petulant,' replied Wendy in a clipped tone. 'What would my mother say if I insisted we take a stroll along the Thames to look for a school of mermaids? I'd never be allowed out of doors again!'

He glowered at her as they sank into silence.

'Please, Wendy, I'm sorry. I – I really need your help.'

Wendy raised her head to meet his earnest, pleading gaze. With a curious sensation in her stomach, she noted with absolute certainty that the eyes she had seen the morning before did not belong to Peter. But this realisation merely fuelled her own curiosity even more.

'Please,' he repeated, reaching for her hand.

His hand felt small and childlike as he wrapped his small fingers over her knuckles.

'If you see Tiger Lily or...or _anyone_ – even that yellow-bellied bo'sun Mr Smee – will you ask them what is happening? Please, help me, Wendy, you're the only one that can help me to save Neverland.'

For the first time in many years, Wendy felt the same thrill that she had done when she sprung from the window ledge that fateful night and, as the memory swam in her mind, she nodded.

'Thank you,' he whispered with a grin.

He floated towards the window, holding onto her hand. Yet, before she knew it, he had let go and Wendy's heart ached as she watched him leap out of the window into the night, leaving her behind for a second time.

* * *

Wendy awoke on the morning after Peter's visit with a feeling of dread in her stomach. It had nothing to do with his tidings. On the contrary, she feared their reunion had been nothing more than a particularly vivid dream.

But as she rose from her bed, she noted a crisp leaf tinted with shades of autumn lying on the rug.

Anyone else would have reasoned that it blew in through the ajar window during the night. Wendy, however, distinctly remembered Peter plucking it from his hair and letting it cascade onto the floor.

Her smile split into a huge grin as she stooped to retrieve the leaf and stored it carefully inside her jewellery box.

As if sensing her new mission, however, Mrs Darling did not venture outdoors with her daughter again after their latest jaunt. Their outings were restricted to visiting friends and family members, who resided in the local neighbourhood. Wendy's suggestions of going into town or, even, for a walk in the park were dismissed instantly on the grounds of bad weather, despite the fact that they were in early November and the worst of the frosts had yet to come.

A fortnight passed, during which, Wendy sorely missed the world outdoors. Her mother, on the other hand, seemed to be susceptible to the drop in temperature in spite of their constant shelter and developed a rather vicious cold. Upon the Monday of their third week indoors, Mrs Darling was so ill that she could barely get out of bed.

Nevertheless, with the family doctor's promises that she would recover with plenty of rest and hot tea to soothe her chesty cough, Mrs Darling retired to her bed and relinquished her domestic duties to her daughter. Although Wendy gladly accepted her mother's burden to allow her to rest, the mission that Peter had assigned to her constantly plagued her.

While she attended to her chores, mending her father's and brothers' clothing and helping Nana, Wendy mulled over Peter's plea, wondering how she would ever fulfil her promise if she was kept indoors all the time.

It was not until one Wednesday afternoon that Wendy's wishes were answered. Mrs Darling's cough had worsened overnight to such an extent that the remedial effects of hot tea were rendered ineffective.

'Shall I go to the pharmacy, Mother? You could do with something a bit stronger to help your throat.'

'No, my dear. I won't have you wandering about town on your own, I – ' Mrs Darling's sentence was interrupted by a loud coughing fit.

'Oh, Mother, you really do need medicine for that nasty cough. Please, let me go.'

'No – Wendy – I –'

'I'll take Nana with me – I'll be perfectly safe,' she insisted. 'Please, Mother, I'll be back before you know it!'

Mrs Darling, unfortunately, was in no fit state to argue with her daughter and, once her coughs subsided, her head fell weakly onto the pillow.

Wendy could not dismiss the pangs of guilt that she felt as she closed the door to her mother's bedroom and tiptoed down the stairs. But, amid the twinges of guilt, she felt the slightest thrill of excitement.

Tying her hat under her chin, Wendy decided she could afford to spend half an hour in town in search of anything, or anyone, peculiar or out of the ordinary without arousing her mother's alarm.

'Come on, Nana. We're going for a walk,' she whispered as she opened the front door.

Fortunately, the pharmacy was empty when she entered and, within minutes, she had purchased a bottle of cough syrup with the chemist's well-wishes to pass onto her mother.

Nana growled quietly as she sloped alongside Wendy, knowing perfectly well that they were not walking in a homeward direction.

'Hush, Nana. We won't be too long. I just want to check for...something,' said Wendy cheerily.

They made their way along the cobbled streets and Wendy's eyes strained with the effort of scrutinising every passer-by. Nana's growling grew louder as they ventured into the more central, busier part of the town.

It was not completely out of the ordinary for a young girl to walk unaccompanied along the streets mid-afternoon and Wendy presumed her canine companion to be the source of the attention. But the truth was that Wendy had blossomed into a very attractive young lady. Her hair and eyes were brown in colour, her skin was very fair and she was slim of figure, but there was a spark and a joyfulness about her that could coax a smile from most women and a double-take from almost any man.

To Wendy's dismay, however, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the strangers she spotted. In truth, it was not the strange faces she looked for, but the familiar ones. Her search, however, was to no avail.

She resolved to make a visit to the bookshop before returning home in the hope of finding one, little clue. It was there, after all, that she had encountered Mr Smee. The memory was clouded with shock, but Wendy could recall that he had been looking for a book that they no longer stocked. Her eyebrows furrowed together as she pondered the significance of the book.

Pirates were not known for their interest in literature as most of them had never learned how to read, which was, Wendy reasoned, the explanation behind their keen interest in recruiting a story-teller.

Nana gave another whine as Wendy patted her head and instructed her to wait outside. But, before she could open the door, her attention was diverted by a sign pinned to the noticeboard beside the shop window:

 **STORY-TELLER WANTED**

 _If interested, we would request that you enquire in-store for further information._

'Oh, Nana!' she murmured, clasping her hands together. 'Look! A story-teller! What do you think?'

Her eyes widened as she reread the sign.

Since their birth, John and Michael had been her sole listeners minus her brief period as 'Mother' to the Lost Boys. Although they enjoyed her tales, to share them with other children would be a dream come true.

Nana whined loudly, rousing Wendy from her thoughts and calling her back to reality.

She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach as she thought of her father. It was extremely unlikely that he would permit it.

But, on the other hand, Wendy thought, if she was earning her own living and contributing to the household, perhaps she could stave off the imminent future that he had planned for her. The position would also give her more time to devote to her detective work, without being subjected to her mother's suspicion.

Wendy's hand trembled as she reached for the door-handle and entered.

'Wendy, where _were_ you? You were gone for ages!'

'Sorry, Mother. There was a queue at the pharmacy.' Wendy blushed at the lie and, even her mother did not seem convinced. She knew that it was not the right time to reveal her news and so, turning her back to her mother, Wendy began to unpack the contents of the paper-bag, babbling incessantly as she did so. 'I saw Margaret Wiggins when I was out too, goodness how big she is! She's looks ready to give birth at any moment!'

'No wonder!' exclaimed Mrs Darling. 'She must be due any day now. Were the twins with her?'

'Er...Yes – they've grown so much since the last time we saw them! She'll certainly have her hands full with another one!'

With a brief glance at her mother, Wendy noticed that her features were not entirely devoid of suspicion, but, before Mrs Darling could interrogate her further, she was seized by another coughing fit. Wendy hastily opened the bottle of cough syrup and spooned the mixture into her mother's mouth as tenderly as if she was her own child.

'There, there, Mother. Just breathe...'

The coughing soon ceased and Mrs Darling smiled weakly at Wendy.

'You'll make a good mother one day, dear,' she murmured kindly. Her daughter gave her a quick smile that resembled a grimace, more than anything, before turning her attention to the handkerchiefs piled on top of the night-stand.

Wendy had not yet planned _how_ she would tell her parents of her new job. The owner of the bookshop, Mr Heavey, had kindly offered to tell her parents for her, but Wendy knew that it would only evoke suspicion if she sought his help in breaking the news. She decided that she would wait until her mother had made a full recovery before announcing her new employment as a story-teller.

However, as if the fates had heard her decision, Mrs Darling remained bed-ridden for a further two days before she was back to her old routine and the time had come for Wendy to inform them.

'A story-teller!' her father exclaimed in alarm, causing his pipe to fall out of his mouth and land in his lap. 'Don't tell me you are still entertaining this ridiculous notion of becoming an author...'

'Father, please,' implored Wendy. She looked at him beseechingly and gradually his anger seemed to ebb. John and Michael had been nudged up the stairs by Nana into a bath, leaving Wendy alone with her parents in the living room. Mr Darling was enjoying his pipe and book and Mrs Darling was absorbed in her embroidery work.

'It's only twice a week for a few hours – it shan't interfere too much with mother's tutelage. It means I'd be able to earn a bit of money and help with the finances and...' She let her sentence trail off into silence as her father's face turned red. The Darlings were not what you would call a wealthy family and this was a source of great embarrassment to her father.

'No. Absolutely not. I do not need money from my daughter. What a preposterous idea! Can you imagine what the neighbours would think if they thought I was sending my daughter out to work to help with our financial circumstances? Absolutely not, Wendy. I forbid it.'

'But Mr Heavey has already given me the job,' Wendy admitted, biting her lip guiltily. 'It's for the children at the orphanage. It is an opportunity for them to go outside and visit different places instead of being cooped up inside the orphanage all day...'

'Yes, but, Wendy...' he began, rubbing his forehead wearily with his hand.

Wendy sensed her father's resolve begin to weaken.

'Oh, please, Father. I am begging you.'

'George, dear, I really don't see the harm in Wendy spending a couple of hours a week reading to orphans,' Mrs Darling said gently as she glanced up from her sewing. 'Besides, she's so good with children and it would be good practice...For when she has some of her own.'

Wendy rose from the futon and embraced her mother. She had never been more grateful for one of her mother's interjections.

Mr Darling's mouth opened and closed as he considered her words and let his head tilt to one side.

'True, Mary...That's quite true,' he mumbled. 'Very well, then. You may go, Wendy. But I will not take your money. Those are your earnings. If you wish, I shall set up a savings account at the bank for you to keep for when you are older and... _settled_.'

Wendy did not miss the meaning behind her father's words, but she nodded enthusiastically and hugged him. In truth, she cared very little for the thought of money, but the chance to escape the house for a few hours a week, even if it was only to the bookshop, filled her with delight. With extra time out of the house and of her mother's sight, Wendy hoped she would be able to investigate Peter's Neverland crisis.

She made towards the stairs to inform Michael and John of her news, but her father raised his finger in the air and she resumed her position by the fire.

'Nevertheless, Wendy,' her father said. He removed his glasses and tweaked the leg. 'I do have one condition.'

Wendy swallowed nervously and nodded.

'One of my colleagues – Mr Herd – You met him last summer, Mary, dear. He mentioned that – well – he's got a lad, the same age as you, Wendy. He thought it might be quite nice for us all to...get together at some point. A sort of party, if you will. I'll agree to this story-telling business,' he said, gesturing vaguely with his glasses. 'If you agree to attend Mr Herd's party in a fortnight's time.'

Wendy nodded her consent.

She understood her father's intentions – as well as those of Mr Herd – perfectly well, but with the precarious position of her new job and the ease with which her father could withdraw his permission, Wendy knew that she would be obliged to devote her attentions to the mysterious son.

'Excellent!' he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. 'He's a smashing chap, Wendy. Recently graduated from Cambridge with a degree in Law. Very clever boy. Rather handsome, too. You remember him, Mary? He was there too. Blonde chap, quite tall, very agreeable young man.'

Wendy did not miss the fleeting expression of doubt on her mother's face. To her husband, however, Mrs Darling murmured a noise of assent before gently adding: 'Though there will be plenty of other young men there, won't there? That's not to say that Wendy won't like Mr Herd's son,' she said hastily, before turning to Wendy, 'but you mustn't feel like you're being coerced. Your father and I won't force your hand one way or the other, will we – George?'

Mr Darling did not seem too enthused by his wife's input.

'Ah...Well, yes, you're quite right, dear. Wendy, it is ultimately your choice in the end...mostly. But I think you'll find him to be quite an amiable suitor –' he blustered. Wendy and her mother remained silent as Mr Darling extolled the virtues of Mr Herd and his son.

Her head nodded meekly in response to her father's raptures, which failed to excite any kind of enthusiasm or anticipation on Wendy's part.


	3. Chapter Three

The next morning, Wendy found herself sitting on a stool in the centre of the bookshop. She watched as all twenty of the children filed into the shop, wrapped in numerous layers to protect them against the bitter cold. They shrugged out of their coats and tugged on their mismatched gloves before taking a seat on the floor in front of her.

'Good afternoon,' said Wendy, addressing the twenty eager faces looking up at her. She felt a fluttering sensation in her stomach as she spoke and her hands trembled so much that she almost spilled the cup of tea that Mrs Heavey handed to her. 'My name's Wendy and,' she swallowed nervously, 'I'm going to be your story-teller.'

Her words were met with silence and their attention was suddenly diverted by the tray of biscuits and glasses of milk that Mrs Heavey passed round the room. Once each had been given a glass of milk and a biscuit – or, in some cases, two – Wendy spoke again, clearing her throat loudly.

'So...what kind of story would you all like to hear?'

They glanced at her mutely and Wendy felt her cheeks grow hot.

'Well, would you like to hear a fairy-tale?'

The boys wrinkled their noses in disgust and Wendy smiled.

'Perhaps, a lovely, romantic story?' she asked mischievously.

'Bleh, no!' they cried in response, shaking their heads.

'A scary story!' one boy exclaimed eagerly, spraying crumbs over the floor.

'No – not a scary one,' countered one of the girls as she nibbled on a biscuit. 'Tell us one about princes and princesses!'

'Tell us one about dragons!'

'An adventure!'

'Oh, yes! Adventure!'

'Well...can it be a _scary_ adventure?'

Wendy felt her nerves dissipate as the children erupted into excited chatter. The sound reminded her uncannily of a group of children she had once met a very long time ago.

'Adventure, it is then,' she conceded with an indulgent smile. 'And I think I have just the one in mind.'

For several hours, Wendy had their complete and undivided attention as she told them of the island of Neverland, describing Skull Rock in minute detail to appease Henry's demands for a scary tale. Isla, who had requested a princess story, squealed in delight at Wendy's depiction of Mermaid Lagoon.

'Mermaids are much better than princesses,' she exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

'Are there any dragons in Neverland, Wendy?' asked one of the boys named Gordon as he stared at her hopefully.

'No dragons, unfortunately, but there is a creature far more dangerous and terrifying than any dragon,' she said in a low voice. 'An enormous crocodile with pointed teeth and beady yellow eyes, who swims in constant search of his enemy. A most vile man who we have yet to meet. The only thing that stops this dangerous predator from devouring every, single creature on the island is the tick-tock, tick-tock sound that signals the crocodile's approach, giving his victims time to flee.'

Gordon seemed thoroughly satisfied with the alternative reptilian and Wendy continued to describe the vicious creature.

Before long, the carers returned to take the children back to the orphanage and Wendy could not help but smile at the despondent groans of the children for it indicated that they had enjoyed her story as much as she had enjoyed telling it.

'Will we hear another story about Neverland next time, Wendy?' asked Henry as he wrapped his scarf around his head like a pirate bandana. 'I want to hear more about the Jolly Roger! And the pirates!'

'Of course,' replied Wendy with a smile as she helped Isla into her coat. 'We've only just begun!'

'What about the crocodile? Is there more about him?'

'Naturally.'

'Does he have a name?' asked Gordon eagerly.

'Not that I have heard...But, perhaps, you could think of one for him?'

Gordon's mouth split into a huge smile.

She watched on fondly as they left in single file, waving cheerily as they departed.

'You did brilliantly, Wendy!' exclaimed Mrs Heavey, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. 'You've made them so happy...And they don't have much to rejoice over, poor little darlings.'

'Thank you so much for giving me this position, Mrs Heavey,' said Wendy, turning to the old woman and clasping her hand. 'It means so much.'

Wendy glowed as she left the bookshop. Attending Mr Herd's dinner party, which was due to take place in a fortnight's time, was a small price to pay in exchange for two days a week of story-telling and freedom from her daily routine of cleaning, mending and cooking. So lost in her musings and happy reflections, Wendy did not look when turning the corner of the busy street and collided with the person in front.

'Oh! I'm so sorry. Do forgive me,' apologised Wendy as she took a step back. 'I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you al –?'

Her mouth dropped as her eyes flickered upwards to meet those of the stranger. They were almond-shaped and dark in colour, but revealed no sign of recognition even as Wendy gaped at her.

'Sorry,' replied the stranger in a foreign, almost guttural tone, before hurrying past her without a backwards glance.

Shock rooted her to the spot. Although oblivious to the obstruction she had created in the middle of the pavement, Wendy did not fail to note the details of the girl who had darted past her. Her hair was long and dark, almost black, and tied at the nape of her neck with a simple band. Her complexion was dark and smooth. Her dress was plain yet not so unusual as to attract attention from passers-by. But it differed enormously from that which she had worn in Neverland.

Even without her pigtails and stripes of paint across her cheeks, Tiger Lily was not completely unrecognisable.

Wendy arrived home at the same time as her brothers, who were keen to hear how she had fared.

'Did you tell them about Neverland, Wendy?' asked John in a hushed voice as they entered the house. They were cautious of mentioning Neverland too loudly lest their mother or father overhear, which would, undoubtedly, result in a replication of the argument that had taken place several weeks ago at breakfast.

'I did,' she replied as she opened the door. 'They wanted to know all about the pirates, the mermaids and the crocodile.'

'Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock...' Michael imitated the sound of the noisy reptile. Wendy was suddenly reminded that she had yet to tell her brothers about Peter's visit as well as the strange happenings in their very own town.

'There's something I need to tell you both...' she began in a whisper. 'Quite a lot, actually, I had a visit from –'

Wendy fell silent as Nana bounded along the hall and butted her head against their ankles, which was her way of reminding the children to take off their shoes before entering the house.

'What is it, Wendy?' asked John.

'Not now,' she whispered in response as she slipped her feet out of her shoes.

'John? Michael? Is that you?' called Mrs Darling from the living room.

'I'm here, too, Mother,' called Wendy.

Wendy's fingers scrabbled under her chin as she untied the ribbon that fixed her hat to her head.

'How did you get on? Come here and tell me all about it!'

The trio exchanged a look before the boys were chased by Nana into their bedrooms to change out of their school-wear.

'I'll be there in a moment,' replied Wendy distractedly as she shrugged out of her jacket and placed it on the peg.

Her forehead felt warm beneath her palm despite the icy gale outside. It was not surprising that Tiger Lily did not remember her. Peter's expression on the night he had visited her had shown her how much she had changed. If he hardly recognised her, there was little chance that Tiger Lily would.

'What were they like? The children, I mean. Were they well-behaved?' asked her mother eagerly as Wendy entered the living room. Her mother gestured towards the opposite armchair, which Wendy wearily lowered herself in to. She spied the neat arrangement of the tea things and knew that her mother had been waiting impatiently to catechise her daughter about her day.

The thunderous sound of footsteps signalled her brothers' return to the playroom to take up their swords and Wendy gazed wistfully at the ceiling.

'They were lovely,' replied Wendy. She flashed a smile at her mother and reluctantly took the proffered cup of tea.

Mrs Darling proceeded to bombard her with questions, but Wendy could not focus on anything except the image of the Indian princess against the backdrop of Edwardian England.

'Are you sure you're alright, sweetheart? You look like you've just seen a ghost.'

'I'm perfectly well,' replied Wendy, who was unable to keep the terseness from her voice. 'Just tired.'

'Mr Herd expressed his delight that we shall be attending his dinner party!' announced Mr Darling at dinner that evening, with a significant glance at his daughter. 'His son is also looking forward to meeting you all.'

John and Michael exchanged a brief look of disgust while Mr Darling continued to throw pointed looks in Wendy's direction. Wendy was exhausted from her mother's gentle yet tenacious probing and the last thing she wished for was to listen to her father's panegyric on the virtues of Mr Herd Jnr.

'I've told Mr Herd all about you, of course,' said Mr Darling with a proud smile as he placed his napkin on his lap. 'I told him how good you are with children and your...orphan, story-telling business,' he said vaguely, gesturing with his fork. 'Not to mention how helpful you've been to your mother around the house...Quite a proficiency for cooking,' he continued through a mouthful of roast beef, 'and a pretty face – to top it all!'

Mr Darling grinned triumphantly at his wife who avoided his gaze and took a sip of water. Her husband's lack of tact was something she had no control over and could only attempt to steer the conversation in another direction.

'How was your day, boys?' she asked with a smile, turning to John and Michael.

But, before either could speak, Mr Darling launched into another monologue about a conversation he had had earlier that day with Mr Herd that he had found quite amusing. Wendy sighed gently and nodded meekly in response. Summoning every detail of her meeting with the chieftain's daughter, Wendy pushed the thought of Mr Herd's son and the ominous dinner party out of her mind.

That night, Wendy placed herself by the windowsill, searching the skies for the familiar, floating shadow of Peter Pan. Excitement bubbled in her stomach as she mulled over the curious happenings that had taken place. First, Mr Smee and, now, Tiger Lily. It was beyond her understanding.

She had hoped for the opportunity to speak to John and Michael and hear their thoughts on the matter. But her father had not permitted such privacy and had persisted in boring Wendy with the details of Mr Herd Jnr while Nana shepherded her brothers into bed. Peter would be most disheartened to learn that she had not had the chance to speak to the princess of the Picaninny Tribe, but the fact that she had appeared in the middle of London was telling. Something had happened to Neverland.

To her disappointment, however, the silhouette of Peter Pan did not appear though Wendy waited by the window until long after midnight. He had not visited her since that night several weeks prior, but his absence did nothing to alter her determination to uncover the truth of the mysterious events taking place.

Wendy awoke the next morning with a start, having surfaced from a particularly vivid dream. It had taken place in Neverland, as most of her dreams did, but this time she was aboard the Jolly Roger.

Unlike her last experience upon the ship, she had not been tied to the mast and her dream-self was free to wander about the deck. The Jolly Roger was silent and, seemingly, absent of pirates, but as she moved closer towards the captain's quarters, her ears discerned a sombre tune. There was no sound of voices nor the blood-curdling cries of horror. Just music. But, before her hand could clasp the gleaming door-knob, she awoke.

As her eyes adjusted to the morning sun, Wendy tried to recall the exact details of the dream. Like most dreams, the minute details were fuzzy and difficult to distinguish, yet one feature she recalled quite clearly was the embellished, wooden sign on the door of the captain's quarters that read 'Captain Hook'. She had given very little thought to it at the time, but she wondered who had taken Hook's place as captain of the Jolly Roger.

Although Mr Smee had been the ship's bo'sun when Hook had lived, but it did not seem likely that he had assumed the position. There were bolder and more frightening members of the crew who would have refused to accept the older, bumbling pirate as their leader.

Wendy's fantastical musings and theories were interrupted by Mr Darling's breakfast announcement that the Wiggins family would be joining them for dinner that evening.

'Such an affable girl! She's been a good friend to you, Wendy,' said Mr Darling.

'Yes, Father,' she replied tonelessly. 'Though I've seen very little of her since we finished our schooling. I'm afraid we have grown up to be quite different.'

She added another spoonful of sugar to her porridge and ignored the scowl that surfaced on her father's face. It was not the reply he had hoped for.

'Come now, she's one of your very dearest friends. I'm sure you'll soon grow very close again...once you've got your own little ones. Your mother will always be able to help you, but it will be nice to have someone your own age who you can learn from,' he continued.

John and Michael took his words as their cue to head for school and hastily gathered their school bags. Wendy gave a humourless smirk as she stirred her porridge. She found it amusing that her father dismissed her tales of Neverland as poppycock and nonsense while she felt the same way about his ideas of the future and the tales he spun for himself about the lives his children would lead.

Wendy watched John and Michael through the window as they hurried along the pavement and, despite her less than fond memories of school, she wished that she could at least go outside. She longed to take advantage of the last few days of mild winter weather, before the heavy snowfall began.

Once her father had left for work, Wendy carried her sewing into the living room and settled into the armchair by the fire while her mother went in search of the expensive cutlery for their guests who would be joining them for dinner.

As her head rested against the armchair, Wendy felt her eyelids grow heavy and the ripped shirt she had been sewing slipped from her fingers. She had not gone to bed until long after midnight, owing to her desire to watch for Peter, and a wave of tiredness swept over her.

Closing her eyes, she let her mind conjure up the image of the door from her dream. With a control that her dream-self did not have, her hand reached towards the handle. She held her breath as she twisted the glowing, golden doorknob and entered his chambers.

And there he was.

Not dead.

But very much alive.

He wore a wine-coloured tail-coat, which did not quite conceal the hook that glinted in the wavering light of the candle. His black hair tumbled over his chest like the dripping candle wax and his eyes were pale like two chips of glittering ice. She had seen them flash red before. Not now. Now they were cold and baleful, but not without a mischievous glint as he looked up at her.

The corners of his moustache lifted as his lips curled into a sly smirk. Her eyes followed the strip of hair that began below his bottom lip and trailed down towards the curve of his chin, culminating in a neatly trimmed beard.

He sat behind a dark wood piano, but his playing ceased as he looked at her.

'Wendy Darling.'

'Captain Hook.'

'Wendy.'

'But, you're dead. I saw you when...'

'Wendy. Wendy. _Wendy_!'

Mrs Darling's fingers snapped before her daughter's face.

'Wake up, Wendy. That's quite enough napping, dear.'

'What time is it?'

'Midday!'

'Why didn't you wake me? I shouldn't have slept for so long.'

'I thought you could do with a rest. You've been looking a bit peaky lately. But you need to help me get dinner organised for the Wiggins' arrival!'

'I forgot about that,' muttered Wendy as she rose from her chair.

'We must get to work! Chop, chop!'

And so they chopped and they diced; they cleaned and they dusted; they set the table and lit candles until they were both exhausted by the time Mr Darling and the boys returned home.

Wendy stirred the enormous pot of soup as the rest of the family hurried upstairs to change and it was during this moment of solitude that she let the subject of her dream return to the forefront of her mind. It was absurd. He was dead. She, among numerous others, had seen him sink into the depths of the sea, closely pursued by the crocodile.

They had not felt any remorse or sorrow. They had cheered. One might even say that they were responsible.

He was an evil man, who had done dreadful things, but that was not to say that he had deserved to die.

'Wendy, are you alright?' asked Mrs Darling as she entered the kitchen, fastening an earring.

'Hmm...Yes, I – I,' she replied vaguely as she placed her hand on the counter to steady herself. 'I just...I think my corset is too tight...'

Mrs Darling hurried towards her daughter and deftly loosened the strings. But, in spite of her efforts, Wendy could not shake off the crushing feeling that gripped her torso and robbed her of breath.

After so many years, she knew it was absurd that she should feel guilt for the death of the man who had caused her nothing but harm, yet she could not dismiss the gut-wrenching feeling of guilt. Wendy's fingers continued to scrabble at the lacing on the back of her dress as if they could free her from the culpability that she felt.

'Mother, I'm not feeling very well –'

The doorbell sounded and Mr Darling hurried downstairs with a loud yelp, adjusting his bow-tie with one hand and smoothing his hair with the other.

'They're here! They're here! Oh, goodness. John! Be a good lad and put Nana outside.'

'But, why?'

'Just do it, John!'

'Really, there's no need to do that, my love...' said Mrs Darling gently. 'The Wiggins have met Nana before. She'll be no trouble.'

'Oh, all right, all right,' he muttered. 'Quick, let them in! They'll catch their death of cold!'

'Good evening, Mrs Wiggins! My goodness, I can't believe how far along you are!' exclaimed Mrs Darling. She embraced the young girl, taking care not to press against her swollen stomach.

Margaret Wiggins was a bonnie, red-haired girl with a kind face and green eyes. The lilac dress she wore flared at the waist, but it did little to conceal the vastness of her stomach.

John and Michael stared in alarm at the size of the bump that projected from her, otherwise, tiny frame and Wendy bit her lip to avoid chuckling at the horror that marked their faces.

Mr Wiggins entered behind his wife and shook Mr Darling's hand and gave him a genial pat on the back. Though Margaret Wiggins was the same age as Wendy, Arthur Wiggins was closer in age to Mr Darling. He, too, was red-haired with a thick moustache and a rounded figure.

Once they were seated, Wendy carried through seven bowls of broth, which their guests received with great appreciation.

'This looks marvellous, Wendy,' declared Mr Wiggins. 'Did you make it yourself? Tastes splendid!'

Wendy smiled and sat at her own seat between Margaret and her mother.

'Mrs Wiggins, you look absolutely radiant! How long have you got to go?' asked Mrs Darling.

Their guest beamed and clasped her hand against her protruding belly.

'Not long, I hope! The doctor says it'll be any day now! Oh, I am so excited,' she said.

'And where are the boys tonight?' asked Mr Darling.

'The twins are both at home with my mother,' she replied, blowing gently on her spoonful of soup. Wendy was fascinated by her old school-friend. She could not quite reconcile the memory she had of young Margaret, to whom she had once spoken of fairies and magic, with the mature, grown-up woman beside her.

'How ever will you manage with three of them?' asked Mrs Darling, reaching for her wine glass.

'Elizabeth, our nanny, is such a dear,' she explained, tilting her head to one side. Wendy did not miss the doubtful expression that crossed her face as she glanced towards the kitchen door, which stood slightly ajar. Through the thin gap, she could see Nana in her nurse's cap, eating her own dinner. Many of the neighbours found it most unusual that the Darlings kept a Newfoundland as a servant, but their fondness for the family precluded any cruel remarks. 'She's always around to give me an extra set of hands and my mother is only round the corner...And Arthur, of course, when he's back from Hull.'

She glanced tenderly at her husband. The portly man was ten years her senior, but Wendy could detect nothing but love and affection in the looks that they shared. Wendy felt a strange twinge as she watched their exchanges; the quirk of his lips when his wife glanced at him and the pink blush that spread across Margaret's cheeks when he winked at her.

At that moment, Wendy felt more curious than ever about how it would be to have somebody look at _her_ with such affection and tenderness. He was not the most handsome of gentlemen, but his smile was warm and genuine. He was the kind of person that one would instantly take to and Wendy blushed as his kindly smile turned to her.

'Ah, yes, how is business, Arthur?' asked Mr Darling, straightening his bow-tie with an air of self-importance.

'Booming,' he responded with a jovial laugh.

'You're in the fishing industry, am I right, Mr Wiggins?' asked Mrs Darling politely. 'Do you catch many fish?'

'Not quite, Mary,' answered Mr Darling. 'Mr Wiggins is quite a step above your average trawlerman. Women,' he murmured in a conspiratorial tone with a shake of his head. 'They can't quite keep up with affairs of business...Not quite got the head for it, I'm afraid.'

Wendy's eyes widened in disbelief. When he was nervous or in company of those he deemed superior to his own, her father assumed a pompous and haughty air, which did nothing to boost his popularity with his guests or his family. She cast a glance at her mother's impassive expression and wondered how she could conceal her feelings on Mr Darling's behaviour. Though his rudeness was the result of insecurity and nerves, Wendy felt that that was a very poor excuse.

'Time for the main course!' exclaimed Wendy as she hastily carried their empty soup bowls to the kitchen and returned with plates of roast cod and asparagus with parsley sauce.

'I do hope you're not too sick of fish, Mr Wiggins,' said Wendy with a smile as she placed the plate in front of him.

'Not at all! Not at all! What have we got here? Ah, cod! Excellent!'

'What's a "trawlerman"?' piped Michael.

'A trawlerman is the name given to a man who works on a trawler, which is a type of fishing boat,' replied Mr Wiggins. 'These boats use what's called a "trawl-net" to catch fish. Certain fish, like cod and haddock, look for food at the bottom of the ocean and so we use these special nets to catch them.'

'So what is it your job entails, Mr Wiggins, if you don't mind my asking? Forgive my ignorance, I know very little about the fishing industry,' said Mrs Darling with a simper.

Mrs Darling, on the other hand, was adept at charming all those she met. It was not her beauty that charmed them, though her loveliness was not inconsiderable, but her manner of speaking and soft looks, which made her so agreeable.

'I oversee the goings-on at the docks and the factories. St Andrew's Dock is where I'm stationed,' he explained kindly, turning back to Mrs Darling.

'Ah, the home of Hull's massive fishing fleet!' interjected Mr Darling.

Mr Wiggins nodded and shot him a brief smile.

'Yes, quite...There's the Queen's Dock as well, also known as "The Old Dock", which is quite an interesting place. You see some curious sights there.'

'Oh, do tell!'

'Why, a few weeks ago, I spotted a most peculiar-looking vessel! Not a trawler, but a merchant vessel with two square-rigged masts. It flew a _black_ flag –'

'A black flag?' questioned Mrs Darling. 'Is that quite unusual?'

'Two centuries ago, the only ships that flew a black flag belonged to...well... _pirates_.'

'Pirates!' yelped John and Michael.

'Oh, goodness!' cried Mrs Darling.

Mr Darling turned a shocking shade of scarlet and choked on his cod.

Wendy's mouth fell open in shock and urged Mr Wiggins for more details.

'I confess I was quite alarmed when I saw the brig make port,' he continued. 'To think...pirates, here! In England!'

'What did you do?' asked John eagerly, who knocked the sauce boat over with his elbow as he leaned closer.

'Oh, John!' cried Mr Darling. 'Do watch where you put your –'

'It was an accident,' he insisted, dabbing at the puddle of sauce with his napkin.

'I'll clean it up in a moment, Father,' said Wendy breathlessly, before turning to Mr Wiggins. 'So, what did you do, Mr Wiggins?'

'Well, I informed the foreman, who scoffed and clapped me on the shoulder. He told me that they're merchants from abroad...In the spice trade, I believe, he said. They're apparently quite eccentric fellows, hence the flag, but not at all dangerous or evil.'

'Did you get a chance to meet any of them?' she asked keenly. 'Or at least glimpse one of them?'

'Wendy, dear, could you please go to the kitchen and fetch a towel?' asked Mr Darling through gritted teeth. 'There's sauce dripping all over the floor!'

'In a moment, Father,' she replied crisply.

' _Now_ , Wendy.'

'George, please,' hushed Mrs Darling. 'Mr Wiggins is telling us a story. Do not interrupt.'

Wendy was grateful for her mother's input, but her eyes were fixed on Mr Wiggins, who took advantage of their quarrel to finish chewing the last morsel of fish.

'I did, indeed,' he said as he swallowed thickly. He patted his mouth with his napkin while Wendy waited with bated breath for him to continue. 'They looked very...odd. "Eccentric" was the word the foreman used...hm, indeed. One of them was a rather old chap with a striped shirt of blue and white, suspenders and a very strange, misshapen red hat.'

Wendy's heart skipped a beat.

'And the others?'

He shook his head and Wendy felt her stomach heave with disappointment.

'The ship was too far away for me to see much of what was happening on deck. But I _did_ run into the captain...a bearded fellow with long, dark hair...He looked quite piratey, going by how they're described in stories. Yet he was remarkably well-spoken. I was quite surprised, given the appearance of his crew. He said he was a native Englishman, but had spent most of his life at sea, trading abroad.'

'Did he tell you his name?' asked John, whose elbow was now resting completely in the pool of sauce.

'Come now, you have harassed Mr Wiggins enough,' snapped Mr Darling. 'I do apologise for my children, sir. I'm afraid my daughter is to blame for filling their heads with nonsense about pirates and flying ships and ticking crocodiles. My wife and I have tried very hard to reinforce the fact that these things are not real, but it just doesn't seem to take root in their heads.'

Mr Wiggins gave him a frosty smile before turning back to John.

'Why, yes, I'm sure he told me...Quite an unusual surname, I'm quite certain that it is not his original, family name...'

'What was it?' asked Wendy.

'Wendy,' snarled her father. 'That's quite sufficient.'

'If I am not mistaken, he called himself Hook,' replied Mr Wiggins.

' _Hook_?' asked Michael in disbelief.

'Yes, that was it,' said Mr Wiggins. 'Captain Hook.'


End file.
